Long Way Home
by esharpthat
Summary: Since Dean let Sam walk out of their tunnel visioned life, not a single day has gone by where Dean hasn't struggled with being a one man show; but nothing is worse than when he receives a frantic phone call that cuts dead, leaving Dean on a desperate search for Sam from a life he thought he escaped. Pre-series, and my first fic, woo! T for language and typical Winchester brawling.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **Its been a while since I attempted to get any ideas out on pages, typed or written; the feeling is like coming home to mom's cooking after a few years of cereal and grilled cheese. Please bear with me as I try to organize these ideas that I've been holding onto with a vice grip for a few years now.

**Summary:** It's been months since Dean let his little brother walk straight out the door of his tunnel vision life and although not a single day has gone by where Dean has not had to shut out that pain, nothing is worse than when he receives a frantic phone call that cuts dead and leaves him on a desperate search for Sam from a life Dean thinks he was safe from.

**Warnings: **Some language, I apologize for Dean's dirty mouth sometimes.

**Disclaimer: **These boys and their Impala don't belong to me, that privilege lies with Kripke and the CW, I'm just borrowing, but I'll return them in one piece!

Behind closed eyelids, Dean can still see the too tall silhouette of his barely eighteen year old little brother framed by the peeling door frame of the rundown apartment that the three of them had managed to fit themselves in for three short months. He remembered the black patches that clouded his vision, the breath rushing out of his chest in dazed shock and could still feel the burns etched into his palm where he had gripped the only lit lamp in the musty room which – of course - lacked a shade. _Sammy please,_ Dean remembered pleading. _Was that out loud?_

It was raining that night; Dean remembered Sam standing for what seemed like forever in a New York minute in the open doorway, dampening the cheap hard wood floor.

_I'm leaving_, Sam had spoken down to his ripped chucks, the big toe on his right foot just visible through the worn down black fabric. _Do I have your seal of approval, or not?_

The black patches only fabricated Dean's usually quick witted intelligence and he could only stare at Sam, open mouthed and with hitched breaths. _Sammy, I want you out of this, but I don't want you walking out on me._

His father answered for them both, his back to his two sons, the stale scent of whisky curling around his words. _You walk out this door, Sam, and you don't come back._

Dean's stomach plummeted, bile rushing into his watering mouth, but he shoved it back down, ignoring the sour sick taste and meeting Sam's eyes with his own, aching for his little brother to read his mind, to know that he wished him all the best in the world, that he wanted to walk right out the door after him. In a reflexive move, so natural it felt like home, Dean clutched the amulet that never seemed to cool on his chest. _Take your brother and run, Dean, and don't look back._

But instead he was met with one last look from Sam; several emotions clearly etched upon his face: anger, confusion, hurt, and was that – fucking _disappointment?_ And then the door slammed, rattling the thin walls and the rain sounds muffled again, and Dean was left standing in the same spot, staring at the back side of the door for seven hours, twenty-six minutes and thirty three seconds, waiting for the knock that never came.

That was four months, six days, seventeen hours, thirty-four minutes and twenty seven seconds ago, and the humidity soaked rain was replaced with heavy snow that coated the ground outside of the Howard Johnson Motel just two miles outside of Helena, Montana. It was quiet at 2:34 A.M., and with only one sleeping Winchester in the dark room it seemed like a slow Saturday night, until Dean was yanked violently out of a short night's sleep, breath coming fast and eyes darting around the room, reliving the last few moments of his recurring nightmare. Dean finally was able to glance at the clock and read the glowing digital letters before rubbing a hand down his face and flopping back unceremoniously onto the hard mattress.

He was rewarded with a significant twinge in an aching head and Dean's hand darted back up to left eye, feeling the warm and inflamed area there, his skin stretched tight. A shiner would be greeting his reflection when he finally got himself around to looking at it, and Dean silently chastised himself for not putting ice on it before he shut down and fell asleep barely four hours earlier.

A simple salt and burn on the outskirts of Helena in Deer Lodge, Montana; a nasty poltergeist doing a number in an orphanage scaring the shit out of the poor kids that already had a tough enough life. Jeremiah Rook, a bitter past caretaker made sick and later deceased from a particularly nasty bit of Spanish flu that broke out in the kids years ago, resurfacing when a contagious twenty – four hour stomach virus turned into an all – out battle for life. With the remains located, Dean expected a usual night of slinking under cloudy skies and snow crunching underneath his feet, the ground so frozen it felt like digging through iron. What he did not expect was for Jeremiah to pay his respects with a very real and very painful right hook to the face.

Dean swung his legs off his bed, reluctant to leave the warmth that the moth – eaten covers offered him from the drafty and cold room. With aching muscles, he shuffled slowly to the bathroom and after adjusting to the light examined his brilliantly blossoming black eye, inky purple vessels spreading like watercolor on paper. Dean winced internally before rummaging in the duffel he had dropped in front of the bathroom door and fishing a disposable icepack from the bottom of the bag, punching it once, and feeling the cold immediately begin to spread to his hands. He placed it gingerly on his eye, sighing with relief as he swayed on his feet in the brightly lit bathroom. Solo hunting was not his favorite pastime, but with his dad away on a requested help hunting trip with Bobby in Michigan, Dean was playing patrol car for what felt like the entire west side of the country.

Dean flipped off the light, keeping the cold pack pressed to his face and walked blindly towards the bed, only falling into it when he felt his shins press against the hard wooden frame. He is just beginning to close his eyes and cross his fingers for a dreamless sleep when the chorus for Foreigner's _Hot Blooded_ rings out boldly in the dark room, assaulting his senses. Dean grumbles to no one in particular, silently cursing the two hour time difference thinking it is his dad looking to confirm that the job was done. Without a glance to the number, Dean flipped open the offending phone and clears his throat.

"Yeah?" he rasped, irritated.

The voice that responds is not his father, but he knows exactly who it is when they first inhale; Dean can recognize that preparation to speak through miles and over four months. Dean can hear this voice almost dripping with relief when he responds. "Dean?"

Dean swallows and his stomach drops; something is not right.

"S – Sammy?" he whispers almost inaudible, except he can hear in his little brother's voice that he is on high alert, and could probably hear Dean whispering if he stood three miles away.

"Dean," he whispers, dropping his high pitched nervous whisper to a quieter tone; behind Sam's desperate whispers Dean can hear distant footsteps approaching and Dean wants to reach through the phone and grab Sam by the too long hair. "Please find me, please help me, I didn't see them, don't tell dad, I'm sor – ."

The line was cut, and a dial tone was blaring an obnoxious single note; but it didn't matter, because Dean had his worn down olive green duffel packed and keys in the ignition of his black '67 Impala before the line beeped its impatience, tearing out of the slick parking lot and nose pointed west towards Stanford University in Serra Mall, California.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **I am enthralled by how much support this story got for my first fic, thank you so much; I sincerely appreciate it and I hope you guys can stick with me and the boys as I plod on through the rest of this story! I've also done an absurd amount of research on Stanford to make this as accurate as possible, but I apologize if some details seem a little fudged, I don't actually go to Stanford.

**Warning: **Just a little language; apparently when it involves Sam, Dean means business.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the boys or their pretty hot rod of an Impala, but I'm 97 percent sure they own me.

When Sam entered Dean's life, it was as simple as flipping a switch; life for Dean was illuminated, and if he had decided on a purpose, it was going to be the small and helpless bundle of a little brother who's most dangerous move was to grab Dean's finger and never let go. So when he carried six month old Sam out of his burning house it was reflexive, and his grief for the loss of his mother was buried by his instincts to look after Sammy; that Sam was, and always will be his number one priority. When Sam itched at the seemingly endless red spots on his stretched skin warm with fever, it was effortless for Dean to be elbow deep in an oatmeal bath until every ache was gone. When Sam's eyelids drooped and his head sat tremulously on wilting shoulders, Dean knew exactly when to extract his lean form from the passenger seat of the Impala and squeeze himself next to Sam, hitching an arm around his shoulders and letting Sam's exhausted weight fit into the crook of his side.

So when Sam's inhale interrupted the white noise of a phone with bad service, Dean knew to throw his duffel bag into his baby and haul ass to California.

Dean doesn't remember the last time it was this silent inside his pristine Impala, and the lack of Metallica or grinding guitar of AC/DC cut through the frosty air like a knife. His fingers were frozen to the familiar wheel, white knuckles reminding him of the tense grip that had been unrelenting for the past four hours after one reluctant, but necessary, stop for gas. Dean hadn't even bothered to turn the heat on, and his muscles protested the hours of a tense and furious car ride; glancing at the already strained speedometer he pressed the gas pedal to the floor and put the cold Nevada dust in his rearview mirror as he passed a sign that read _Welcome to California_.

Dean thinks the drive should have been sixteen hours, but he's crossed California's border in half the time. He watched the sun rise in his back window on the outskirts of Idaho and never looked back, spinning his baby's tires over winding and snow ridden lanes as they slowly turned into the dry, and warmer, gritted sand desert roads. The speedometer reads nearly one hundred miles per hour, and Dean only wishes he could go faster.

_Dean?_

The hissed whisper rushes through Dean's head and each time feels like the wind is getting knocked out of him; the first time he's registered Sam's voice and its fucking soaked with a horrific mixture of relief, desperateness and the most tangible bit of sheer _panic_ that Dean has ever heard his tough as nails little brother make.

_Please find me, please help me, I didn't see them _– and then – _don't tell dad_. Dean lets an ironic chuckle escape through his pursed lips; the kid is whispering terrified SOS's and the first thing he says is _don't tell dad?_ Dean silently steels his resolve and presses harder on the already flattened gas pedal.

When Dean finally steers the Impala down Serra Mall its almost three in the afternoon, a full twelve hours since Sam's voice cut dead on the line, and Dean can feel the hours ticking by like the clock in a prize fight: too much time, and not enough left. He glances left and right at the palm trees decorating the entrance to the university and the overcast winter California skies and swallows down the sour sick taste that threatens to overtake him; the place repulses him. He's angry that this sprawling place had been where Sam had fled to, where he should have escaped from the life that Dean so wanted him out of, and had wound up right back where he started. Dean heatedly throws the Impala into park outside of a visitor's center, which lies next to a red track and a deep green inner field.

He's caught off guard when the door opens for the first time since filling up in Nevada and the air that hits him is cooler than he had expected; Dean shivers in his worn down button up. Popping open the trunk Dean props it with an old sawed off and rummages for an old black backpack that Sam had left the night he walked out. He heaves it out of a spare bit of space between a box full of screwdrivers and a forty pound bag of rock salt; it's stiff and dusty from sitting so long but Dean shakes it out, barely having time to react when a yellowing piece of paper comes flying out of the largest pocket. Snatching it, Dean pulls apart the crumpled edges and recognizes his own handwriting.

_Hey, Sammy? Why did the skeleton go to prom by himself? Because he had no BODY to go with! Hah! You're laughing, geek boy I can tell. Called into garage, trying to get out of it. See you soon kiddo, lock the doors._

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat but it's difficult to breathe, so he fakes a cough and pushes the paper in his jean pockets, swinging the backpack now stuffed with salt rounds, a silver knife, and books to cover up with. Making sure the safety was clicked on the .45 he kept tucked in his waist band, he closed the trunk of the Impala and walked pointedly towards his destination.

The J. Henry Meyer Memorial Library at Stanford was beginning to fill with the Sunday evening crowd of students finally biting the bullet and starting the homework that should have been done days ago. Not only was the place packed with enough books to keep his geek kid brother occupied for several life times, but it was first floor loaded with twenty – four hour study rooms, which Dean figured would be a good place to start looking for someone like Sam who always had his nose to the grindstone. Dean felt his face flush unwillingly thinking about slumming it in the library with strangers because he didn't even know his little brothers fucking _address_.

Dean walked through the front doors of the tall academic building and had to do a double take; the place was huge, and he felt his stomach drop a little. He had no idea where the hell he was going to even begin looking for Sam, or some trace of him even, in this place. Dean skipped out on his second grade class when they learned about the Dewey Decimal System, so he couldn't even really begin to look up a book on finding missing brothers let alone the actual brother. _Fuck, Sammy, where are you? _Dean thought, glancing nervously at his watch and the ticking hands; another second that Sam was somewhere, without him.

Just as the nervous sweat was beginning to shine on Dean's face, by some fucking _miracle_ he heard his name and whipped his head to the right, following a group of three students; a tall skinny boy with short brown hair, a short dark haired girl with eyes to match, and the typical California beach blonde girl, fit and muscular and glowing with bronze sun kissed skin.

"…and where is Winchester? Jess, have you heard from him?" The tall boy finished, looking expectedly at the blonde girl, who Dean had determined was Jess.

"Sorry, Jake, I haven't since last night. I'm worried, he left my place around two and I haven't seen or heard from him since. You don't think he's in trouble do you?"

Dean tailed them, waiting for a moment to interject as the dark haired girl placed a gentle hand on Jess's left shoulder. "Don't worry Jess, Sam's fine. You know how he gets."

Dean watched her shoulders lift and heard the sigh as they turned into a set of propped open double doors. "Yeah I know, but he wouldn't do this when we made plans for this project. That's just not like him."

The tall kid smirked as he led the group to a circle of squashy arm chairs surrounding a small white table, kicking his feet up as he collapsed into a chair. "Maybe it was just a long night last night, Jess?"

The dark haired girl smacked him on the arm with a textbook she had just pulled out of her pink backpack with a loud thud. "Jake!"

Dean smiled inwardly at the jest and silently made a mental note to give his brother the thumbs up on the pretty girl when he finally tracked his ass down when he decided enough was enough and as politely as he could, made his way over to them.

"Excuse me?" Dean said as he approached, watching all three heads look his way. He shifted his eyes to each of them, looking away quickly as he read a shred of recognition in Jess's eyes. "I was wondering if you could help me, I'm looking for my brother, freshman, terrible at giving directions. Heck I don't even think the kid knows where he actually lives."

Jess's forehead furrows in concentration, studying him with, Dean had to admit, stunningly green eyes. "Who's your brother? I'm sorry, you just look like someone I might have seen in a photograph.

Dean swallows the truth along with the painful lump in his throat. _Sammy, my kid brother Sammy. I think you saw him last and I can't find him. _"Uh, his name's John." Dean casually slips in his father's name. "Pretty shy, nerdy kid. You probably don't know him. But I'm pretty sure he lives with other freshmen, any idea where that might be?"

The dark haired girl interjects before Jess has any more time to appraise him, and Dean is thankful for the distraction. "You probably want Sterling, the FroSoCo, where Jess and I dorm. Or what we call it here, most of the freshmen and sophomores live there, it's in Governor's Corner. If you go back out the main entrance and take a right, keep walking, it's basically at the very back of campus there."

Dean gives her a mega – watt smile which earns him a bright eyed look back and a frown from the tall kid on his left. "Thanks."

He gives Jess a quick nod, noticing that her eyes were still burning into his with fierce concentration. She quickly reins it in and gives him a small smile. "Good luck!"

Dean makes his way out of the library, feeling his throat close because that Jess girl fucking _knew him_ from a God damned _picture_ which means Sam has one hanging in his fucking _room_. He feels the crumbled paper deep in his pocket and breaks out into a sprint, racing the ticking hands on his too fast watch.

It takes Dean nearly an hour, but he manages to track down Jess's room in a fourth floor corner of the too warm building. Silently, he picks the lock and leans into the room, closing the door behind him.

He is immediately assaulted by bright pink and actually shields his eyes for a moment before assessing that the bluer, neater, and more reserved left side of the room was Jess's, and scans the desk. A disconnected laptop charger, a half drunk mug of coffee and a stapler are a few things that cover the work space. Pinned to the back half of the desk are pictures; a scruffy looking dog with a stick twice his size, a blonde family of four smiling at him from in front of the Grand Canyon, and there, pinned between a test schedule and a political science syllabus is his kid brother, all smiles and bright eyes as he pushes his cheek against Jess's, his arms cut off as he reaches to take the picture himself.

Dean reaches out and brushes shaking finger tips against the glossy picture, shocked at how fucking _happy_ Sam looked. Dean tries to remember the last time his little brother looked this happy about anything and finds himself drawing a blank, which makes him want to throw something.

"Where are you Sammy?" Dean whispers to no one in particular. He spends a few more moments looking at the picture of his brother before deciding that the room holds nothing for him except a place to start from and exits, making sure nothing was amiss and the door was locked tight behind him. Dean stands outside the door, his mind whirring knowing that Sam stood here, in this exact spot.

_If I was a six foot something, gangly and awkward geek boy, where would I go after leaving a girl's room at two in the morning? _Dean thought to himself, but he knew the answer, even before he could finish the thought. _I would be hungry._

Dean remembers seeing several dining halls on his way into the building, one in particular that stood out to him. Middle Earth Dining; if his geek of a kid brother was going to go somewhere to eat at two in the morning, Dean was going to be his ass that it would be there.

He quickly made his way to the building, noticing it was sandwiched between two other dorms, forming two darkened alleys in which some sketchy transactions could transpire if they were to on this campus. Dean makes his way to the smaller of the two and feels his heart begin to beat faster, slipping into hunter mode – or was it big brother mode? – whatever it was, his senses were on high alert, taking in everything and anything that would clue him into what could have happened to Sam. Dean could feel it in his empty stomach – fuck, when was the last time he ate? – that Sam had been here. What the hell was the kid doing back here, he god damned knew better.

And that's when Dean saw it, at first a possible trick of the light, but it stayed solidly present as he approached it, crouched down and eyes wide. He reached his hand out, tightening his already tense muscles when he realized it was shaking, and picked up the offensive object from the dry pavement, flipping it into his palm.

"Fucking hell, Sammy." Dean whispered. He knew exactly what it was, and his stomach revolted when he thinks about the match that must have endured between the two for this to have fallen out; Sam hadn't gone down without a fight. Long, thin, and formidably white was what could only be a loose and stray vampire fang.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: **I am still SO EXCITED about all of the incredible support you guys keep giving me for this story; I'm positive it isn't that stand out but I'm working hard on it thanks to you guys and it makes every stressful thing in college seem that much more bearable. You guys keep me going! And Dean of course.

**Warnings: **There's some language, I speak for Dean personally when I apologize for his dirty mouth.

**Disclaimer:** The boys and their Pimp-ala aren't mine, but I would definitely drive one if ever given the chance.

Thunder rattles the greasy window panes of the cold and drafty motel room, sending shivers down Dean's already chilled spine. They – him and Sam, that is – were about forty minutes south of Albany, New York in a Motel 8 straight off the New York State Thruway, spending a night waiting for their dad to come traipsing back from a werewolf hunt further upstate, and Dean's relentless waiting had brought him to counting water droplets as they littered the windows at 1:33 in the morning.

He slept in the bed closest by the door, reflexive, while his barely ten year old kid brother curled into a tight ball in the farther one. Another roar of rolling thunder moves overhead and Dean can practically taste the change in Sam's resolve façade; Dean turns his head away from the hypnotizing opaque windows and looks at Sam's rounded back. Aside from the mop of untrimmed brown hair, all Dean can see is a dark outline of his trembling form that is melted into the shape of the comforter his little brother seems to wish to become.

_Sam?_ Dean whispers, though he knows he'll get no words back. Sam's only response is to jolt ever so slightly and mold himself deeper into the flattened pillows, trying and failing to control his incessant quaking.

Dean sits up, letting the covers fall to his waist as he watches Sam continue to turn his back to him, refusing to acknowledge the next roll of thunder and Dean's ever watchful eyes. The lightening illuminates the room for a brief and overwhelming second and Dean can just make out Sam's white fingertips clutching his own shoulders as he continues to look pointedly away.

Dean's stomach pulls and he frowns, kicking off the rest of the covers and unfolding his legs out from under him. He pads the couple of steps it takes to get to Sam's bed and gently lowers himself so that he's perched with his waist touching the curve of Sam's back. He lays a hand on his little brother's shivering shoulder.

_Sammy?_ Dean whispers, and it's slight, but Dean can feel Sam slow his trembling and sink into Dean's touch, letting a breath that he didn't know he had been holding rush out. Dean smiles and squeezes Sam's shoulder.

_I know dude, it's loud. But thunder's not going to hurt you._

Dean immediately swallows his words, pursing his lips into a frown which he hides from Sam who has inched closer to Dean's touch. He knows with confidence that, definitely, this thunder won't hurt Sam; that even though they were in a no-name motel with drafty walls and grimy windows they had a roof over their head together, and no, this thunder and rain was just another excuse to stay indoors. But his stomach twists when he thinks about what _could_ hurt Sam, his little brother shivering under rough covers because of fucking _thunder_ and Dean swallows an unwelcome lump in his throat as he sinks down next to his brother. He wraps an arm around his trembling form thinking that he would never be caught dead in such a fine display of chick-flickery ever again but this was _Sammy_, his kid brother _Sammy _who was inching his way towards Dean's chest and sinking into the pillows, breaths growing steadier and steadier until he slipped into sleep, and Dean swore that nothing would ever get fucking close enough to make Sam squint at it. Another rolling clap of thunder and –

Dean's eyes shot open, panting and feeling drops of sweat roll down between his heaving shoulder blades. He quickly assessed his surroundings: the inside of the Impala, and it was dark, nearly midnight parked on a side street just off Serra Mall, California.

Dean slowly sits up, nervously checks his watch, his right knee beginning to bounce nervously and hit the steering wheel of the Impala; it's been almost a full twenty four hours since Sam's phone call, and now that Dean knows he's dealing with bloodsuckers, he's on edge and even more anxious to find Sam.

Dean doesn't know as much about vampires as he's willing to admit, and he refuses to call his father; whether it's because he doesn't want to share the news that his practically disowned youngest son he hasn't seen in months is missing and, oh yeah taken by a bloodsucker club or out of solidarity to Sam's desperate phone wishes but he can't bring himself to dial the number. He knows that the popular lore on them is all wrong; although uncomfortable, the sun doesn't kill them, and garlic is just as effective as wooden crosses: not at all. He's done his research, holed up in the convenience of the actual library on campus; he's no Sam, but he's not stupid, and he managed in the past few hours to discover that the only way to gank these sons of bitches is to pull a headless horseman and cut off the head. Dean thinks that the head isn't enough.

He also knows, from the little that his dad has spoken to him about them, that they hunt in packs ranging from two to god knows how many; he's crossing his fingers for a smaller bunch and the poor cover up and lack of supernaturally suspicious disappearances makes Dean think that this gang is new. He thinks they're a little stupid going after kids on a college campus when they have the entirety of the surrounding city area – the entire _fucking_ state of California as far as Dean is concerned – to hunt.

When Dean picked up the long, white fang that lay innocently on the ground it took everything in him from throwing the few garbage cans that littered the small alley way that he crouched in, trembling with anger. He thought of Sam's hurried words again, how they were pushed out through strained vocal chords, breathless and scared: _I didn't see them_. Dean figures that creatures destined to carry out their miserable lives in the dark were probably agile and silent at night; flitting through spaces like shadows and quieter than a hunting fox. Dean looked around the alley more, taking in the surroundings and piecing together a short but horrific puzzle; there were three garbage cans stacked neatly in a row along the left side of the alley, the right side just about fifteen feet away. Towards the back of the alley, a thick layer of trees, dense and green and devoid of any lights made it the perfect place for a bloodsucker to lay in wait for some unsuspecting shmuck to wander in the dark space. Dean selfishly wished that it wasn't his kid brother. Sam wasn't that much of an idiot though; he can hold his own handedly in a normal brawl facing a man twice as wide, but these were vampires who got the jump on him; a few punches and a knocked out tooth before his inevitable loss and Dean's come full circle.

Dean shifts the newspaper he picked up at a coffee shop on the outskirts of Palo Alto into the passenger side of the Impala's front bench and rubs a hand down his face. It's a long shot, but he's hoping the new club in town makes a return trip to their favorite hot spot for round two, so that means an investigation. He checks his watch again, noticing the continuous rhythm of his nervous jeaned leg but lets it go, replaying the phone call again, sucking in every ounce of Sam's voice that his memory has to offer him.

_Dean?_

_Please help me, please find me –_

Dean shudders, thinking better on his idea of an instant replay, and decides just after midnight is a good time to start his vigil, and pushes the door open with his shoulder, unfolding his legs from under the wheel. He runs a hand down the Impala's side as he trails to the trunk, easily opening and propping it with the old sawed off with practiced movements. Dean chooses carefully, his hand going back and forth between two long blades tucked neatly in the top of the trunk, and in the end chooses a curved one with one smooth side; not nearly used as much as the pearl handled .45 but sturdy and familiar in his hand. He tucks it into a holster tied to his belt loop and pats it, checking once more for anything he may have forgotten before gently closing the trunk and locking the black car's doors. He tucks his pistol into his waistband for good measure and steels his resolve, swallowing loudly.

_Hold on, Sammy. _

Dean chooses a bench in a small field next to the dorms which he assumed was Governor's Corner; dimly lit and upwind from the surprisingly cold California winter breeze, and close enough that Dean could keep an eye on the offending alley. He breathes into his bare hands and rubs them together, prepared for a lifetime of waiting. It's just 1:15 A.M. now, and Sunday night has not drawn the crowds that Dean was hoping for. Campus is eerily silent, and he shivers from something that has little to do with the chill. His leg begins to tap out a quick rhythm again, and thinking about Sam's voice cuts through him like a knife.

Another half an hour passes, and Dean is beginning to think he's going to have to run into the trees waving his blade like an irresponsible lunatic when his stomach plummets: he can see a small girl with flaming red hair who barely looks old enough to be a freshman, hell he could probably count the freckles on her face from there, walking pointedly towards the alley. Dean pats his right hip with well-trained movements to be sure of his weapon and begins to tiptoe his lithe form towards the unsuspecting girl who he suddenly wished wasn't there at all.

He's barely within forty feet of the alley when he watches her form disappear into the darkness and sprints quietly towards her, hoping that in the few seconds it took him to reach the place she wasn't gone. He pushes himself flat against the brick wall of the dining hall that formed one side of the dark path and holds his breath, waiting for sounds of scuffling or a muffled cry, but Dean counts thirty-one thousands and not one sound and the girl had not yet emerged from the darkness. Slowly letting out a breath, Dean pulls the long blade out silently and throws his body around the corner in one swift motion, eyes wide as he forces them to adjust quickly, but met with nothing but nearly empty trash cans.

It takes one moment, one heartbeat, a small frustrated eye roll, but when the moment is gone Dean finds himself with his face flat to the icy pavement and a cold smooth hand over his mouth, muffling his surprise. Dean can feel his arm being twisted around his back and he tries to cry out because his arm doesn't _fucking bend that way_ but the fingers on his face press harder and he's forced to grunt stupidly. The blade is pried from his fingers and a heavy weight sits on his back, unrelenting and firm. With one hand still covering his mouth, the other hand preoccupied with his own blade reaches up to his short hair and yanks his head back, forcing him to look up, where he's met with the green laughing eyes of the red headed girl.

"Well would you look at that, Scotty, I think we've caught ourselves a hunter." She crooned at Dean. Her voice had an unnaturally high pitched whine that made her sound like she was going to break into hysterical tears or laugher at any second and it made Dean's stomach turn. "Did you think we were that stupid, you nosy little fox hound? We smelled you set up shop before the wind changed."

Dean struggled under the heavy weight above him, breathing heavily into the hand that pressed his mouth shut before watching the green eyes flit upwards and the hand let go just as suddenly as it had arrived.

Dean could think of a thousand things he wanted to say, many of them involving a string of curse words that would have even him washing out his mouth for years, but he settled on sarcasm which was almost as good. "Is your name seriously Scotty?"

The hand that had just let go shoved his face into the ground again, making sure Dean felt every edge of the cold pavement. "You want to make fun of my name one more time?"

The petulant voice of the woman returned, "Stop it, Scotty, and don't ruin his pretty face for Mason."

The gruff voice from behind him answered quietly. "Sorry, Maggie."

Dean let out an uncontrollable laugh. "Seriously? Scotty, Maggie, and Mason?"

Dean could feel the change in Maggie's off-the-cuff attitude within seconds, and felt his stomach drop when a small girlish hand reached into the back of his waistband and pulled out the .45; he could hear her flip it casually in her hand.

"I'm bored," she whined. "Let's go home Scotty."

Dean watched her walk away from him through the one eye that wasn't pressed against the pavement, his eyes tracing her bouncing red curls sway down her back towards her hand twirling his pistol and could feel his heart start to race. He braced himself, but was not nearly prepared when a large fist rained down from nowhere, a heavy roaring sound filled his ears like ocean water and everything went black.

**Seriously guys, thank you so much for all the support. Its really awesome, and makes my day! I'm trying to update as soon as I can, its actually almost 1 in the morning and I was so excited to post this. I hope you like it! **


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: **A huge thank you to you guys who've been supporting me since the first tiny chapter of this fic, every follow, favorite and word of encouragement means so much to me! Special shout out to jojospn, reannablue and lovejensenacklesforever, you guys have been so lovely!

**Warnings: **Dean's got quite the mouth when it comes to Sam, and some typical Winchester smackdowns.

**Disclaimer:** The boys and their fancy '67 Chevy are still not mine, but after that Season 9 promo I wish they were. Oh baby! I also don't own Yahtzee, but Dean has pretty much coined the catch phrase for me.

Rain. Rain is the first thing that Dean felt as he slowly attempted to push his eyes open and force himself into consciousness. He's dizzy, and _fuck _his head is aching and for a moment the cold floor that he can feel below him is swaying him back and forth like a boat on rough seas. The rain hit him again and he opened his eyes fully and was met with almost as much darkness as his closed eyes brought him.

Dean discovers that it is not rain that drips onto his face, but a leaky pipe that was staring back at him nearly five feet away. Another drop landed directly in his eye and he lets out a grunt of displeasure, covering his face with his left arm and wincing when it reveals how sore he is. He can just make out the time on his ticking watch hands; it's just 5:00 A.M.

Dean sits up slowly and lets out a hiss, reigning in his dizziness and forcing his rapidly blinking eyes to adjust. It's dark where he is, and as he tries to lift his right hand to his face to rub at his eyes, his stomach churns when he realizes it's stuck and he whips his head to look at. Handcuffs. Dean doesn't know why he didn't feel them before as he attempts to slide his hand out; they're bound tightly around his wrist and can feel the objection from his skin against the cold metal. He stops pulling, banging his free hand against the leaking pipe, listening to the clang echo in the dark space.

"What are you in for?"

A hoarse voice cuts through the heavy silence and Dean turns his head sharply to look behind him. He's met with a dark, hunched figure he can barely discern in the darkness. Dean can just make out the outline of a full and unkempt beard, and he watches the dark man's eyes glisten in the darkness. Dean clears his throat and twists to face him.

"Having a pain in the ass little brother. You?" Dean whispers to the ground, beginning to work at the knot in his tightly laced boots. He doesn't see when the man across the room slowly raises his head in recognition, widening his eyes at Dean's concentrated form.

"Are you _Dean_?" he says, uttering his name with the type of incredulity that could either send Dean's hackles rising or bristle his self-confidence.

"Who's asking?" Dean barks back, halting his frantic picking at the uncooperative boots.

"The tall gangly kid who said your name every five seconds, that's who. _'Dean will be here, just wait.' 'Dean's coming, and he'll bust us out so just hold on okay?' _I've never heard a more optimistic son of a bitch while the life is getting sucked out of him – literally – ."

Dean had heard enough, and cut him off with a punch to the hard ground below him. "His name, what the hell is his name?" He already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it.

"Are you serious?" The man laughed back at him.

"Just say," Dean whispered, holding his breathing still, "His name."

The man rolled his eyes to the back of his head. "He kept saying you were smart but I think you hit your head too hard – ."

"His god damned _name_!" Dean hissed back.

"Alright don't get your panties in a bunch – Sam. His name was Sam."

Dean let the name slide over him and sink into his bones as he felt his shoulders droop and a half smile decorated his dimly lit face. _Gotchya, kiddo. _He let it last a moment before his stomach churned and the dense muffin he had eaten what seemed like days ago threatened to come up in a spectacular display of vomit.

"What do you mean was?" Dean could hear himself talk, but his brain was numb to the response he wasn't ready to hear.

"I'm assuming you met the freaks who dragged us in here – who knew _vampires _even friggin' existed. They stashed us down here at the same time – never met kids his age keep cool when a friggin' _vampire_ threatens to rip out your vocal chords – but he kept it. They left for a couple minutes and he managed to get his phone out of his pocket and flip it open by the time the door shut to the upstairs. Must have called you, but they came back down pretty quick and they weren't too happy. They grabbed the phone and crushed it – with their bare hands I might add, who friggin' _knew?_ – and Sam flat out told them to stick it where the sun don't shine."

_That's my boy_, Dean thought to himself, thinking that this man's story was taking far too long and he was getting angrier by the second.

"Well you know, they're _vampires_ so they each took a nice little chomp out of him and left. Wasn't feeling too good afterwards, I'd imagine, so he spent most of the time pretty quiet. Not too long before you got here they came back down and each took another bite and brought him back up with them. Haven't seen him since."

Dean felt his heart quicken and a cold sweat broke out on his face. He wordlessly began furiously working at the knot in his boot again, trying not to think of his little brother in this dark basement laying on the same cold ground. Pushing the vision of anything getting close enough to Sam to even lay a _finger _on him, let alone take a bite. Dean has never wanted to vomit more.

"What are you doing over there?" The man calls out to Dean through the darkness just as Dean's shaking fingers find purchase on a knot that hasn't been retied in weeks and it comes loose, his foot sliding out as Dean kicks it off. He pulls the insole out trying to ignore how dirty and thin it feels and plunges his free hand towards the toe feeling around anxiously. _It's somewhere here, never leave without one…_

Dean fingers close over something small and thin crushed between the lining of his instep and the bottom of the old boot and he yanks it out, holding it close to his face triumphantly.

"Yahtzee." Dean holds up the bobby pin, silently praising his hunters training and the decision to hide one in his boots the day he bought them three years ago. He finally thinks it was worth it to buy a pack of bobby pins at the dollar store when his father marched both him and his brother in there and told them more than twenty ways to pick a lock.

Dean rejects the man's gruff questions and puts the bobby pin in his mouth, ignoring the rancid taste of metal that's been sitting in a working man's boots for three years. He works at the pliable material, bending it into a ninety degree angle before he yanks it back out and fumbles his way to the lock in the cuffs.

Dean thinks that these three new kids on the block are really quite stupid leaving his hand free to pick a single lock on the cuffs, and it seemed almost too easy. A warning whined in the back of his head that it could be just that – too easy – but too easy or not Sam was merely twelve feet up the stairs from the small and drafty basement, and his angry big brother instincts were only getting angrier with each stomach churn.

After a few minutes of what seems to be the longest time he's taken to pick a lock in a while, he feels the cuffs slide open from against his raw wrist and for a moment he's elated before he springs up, kissing the bobby pin with reverence so real it's almost sarcastic. Slipping the insole back into the boot and lacing it back onto his foot, he allows himself the moment before he sets his face in a grim stoic expression and looks towards the stairs passed the hunched over man and to his left.

"Hey!" The man whispers hoarsely, and Dean catches a glimpse of his shocked expression as he stealthily creeps by him, silent hunters feet noiselessly pressing against the ground. "Where are you going? What about me!"

Dean puts a hand to the unfinished railing and places his right foot onto the first stair, silently praying for no creaks and lets out a small breath when he finds a good place to step up without making a sound. He shoots the confused man a quick look.

"Just stay quiet and don't move no matter what you hear. We'll be back."

Dean steels his resolve and quietly comes to the top stair where it's lit by a small stream of light that travels through the keyhole. He takes a deep breath before he looks through the small space, taking in as much of the surroundings as possible. He can just make out a rotted wooden floor just on the other side of the door and a landing to the immediate left, a railing wrapping around the small step, but it's all he can see. Testing the knob, Dean slowly begins to turn it and finds it unlocked. His stomach plummets for what seems like the fiftieth time in twenty four hours. This was definitely too easy. Shaking off the horrible feeling in his gut, Dean slowly pushes the door open.

He barely breathes, and the hair on his skin is sticking straight up. He looks to the left first and sees where the landing leads to: an old and small kitchen with barely enough room for two. Empty bottles of liquor were lying on the small table and littering the grimy countertops and Dean could make out the early rays of sun peeking in through closed blinds in a window above the sink. It looked like a hallway went off from the left of the kitchen but he couldn't make out where it led to, and he certainly couldn't make out the presence of any bloodsuckers. He slowly pushed the door open more, thinking it was too good to be true, and moved his head around the side, taking in a broken armchair, a small old television set sitting on top of a misused bookcase and settling his eyes on a grossly green loveseat where his sasquatch of a brother had managed to fit his long body on the sunken in couch.

Dean forgot his lithe hunters' gait, his acme training and rigorous work ethic as he threw his body around the door and took all of three steps before he fell to his knees next to Sam and swallowed the hard lump in his throat. He reached out to press his hand against Sam's cheek and was unprepared for the fist that uncurled itself from Sam's side and flew to his face, giving him a surprisingly strong knock to the face.

Sam sat up, his face turning, if possible, even more pale to a sickly grey, his glassy eyes settling on Dean as he lowered his raised arm slowly.

"Dean?" he whispered, incredulous.

"Howdy, Sammy." Dean bit back, shaking his head and moving his jaw back and forth. "And here I was thinkin' you'd lost your touch."

Dean watched as Sam's tough-guy front faded fast and he reached a hand out to cling onto Dean's threadbare shirt, his other arm shaking as it supported his exhausted form. It was only then that Dean noticed Sam's right arm was poorly wrapped with bloodied gauze and he shook, unable to take his eyes away from the offensive wound.

"Maybe you have, huh?" Dean pushed greasy bangs away from Sam's sickly pale face and swallowed hard when his skin was burning hot and dry – fever. "What do you say Hilts, you wanna bust out of here?"

Sam nodded silently, if anything else gripping Dean's shirt tighter, and watched as his face tightened and the grasp on his shirt reached unprecedented levels. Dean barely had time for a quizzical look before he felt a hand tug on the back of his shirt and yank him away from Sam, twisting so that he was face to face with his dark haired captor.

"Well that was quicker than expected." The man had dark brown threatening eyes, shining with malice and something else that Dean could only describe as the look a hungry mountain lion gets when he closes in on his prey. Dean could only assume that this was Mason. "Sorry to break up the family reunion, but I've been waiting for the fun to start since Sam first came late for dinner."

"You son of a bitch."

He could hear Molly's petulant voice from the small kitchen before he saw her, followed by her burly counterpart. She still swung his long hunter's knife in her hand as she skipped over to them, curling a hand over Mason's shoulder.

"Is that anyway to speak to your host, Dean? I thought you hunters had at least some shred of manners." Her eyes flicked up to Mason's grinning face, crooning. "Can't we just do it now? I'm tired!"

Mason turned to look at her, kissing her gently as Dean rolled his eyes and gagged.

"Yes, can we please do this now?" Dean snarled. "I think it's past your bed times."

Mason snickered as he only held tighter onto the back of Dean's shirt.

"You hunters and thinking you're the only ones who have all the fun. Don't you ever wonder what happens when the hunters become the _hunted?_"

Dean moved his eyes downward, making as secret of a sweep as possible as the voice slipped into his ear when they fell onto a broken bottle of Jack that glistened on a rotting coffee table in the small streams of sunlight. It was a long shot, but Dean could just brush his finger-tips above it in the cramped room, and he couldn't help himself when a small grin spread across his face. Mason frowned, immediately sensing the loss of having the upper hand, and his grip loosened in the slightest bit.

"Not really." Dean whispered menacingly.

In one fluid movement, he grabbed the Jack bottle, ignoring a protest in his hand when he gripped a jagged end and pushed it into Mason's pale neck and at the same time ripping his long knife from Molly's unsuspecting hand. Without thinking twice he finished the job he started with Mason and swung, hearing the sickening slice as his blade met the target and Mason fell to the ground.

Molly's scream was blood curdling and loud as Scotty leapt forward, pushing her shocked form to the side and giving Dean a royal punch to the face not once, not twice, but three successive times before Dean found his back against a rough wall. He took a blow to the stomach before he used the wall to his advantage and leaned against it, crouching low to the ground. Scotty's hand collided with the weak walls, pushing a hole clean through to the dry wall as Dean slipped under his outstretched arm. He pulled his arms back and swung as Scotty turned towards him, never quite finishing his final punch.

Not catching a break, the wind was knocked out of him as he fell, and Dean watched his knife get kicked to the side as Molly jumped onto his back in a raging fit of flaming red hair and burning eyes. She is clawing at him anywhere she can reach and Dean chokes when her hands wrap around his throat as he feels her breath, hot and heavy on his neck, and he shuts his eyes to the pain that never comes.

He hears a familiar slicing sound, too close to his ear, and feels her dead weight fall onto him, the red hair rolling repulsively away from him. He lays there for a moment, letting himself breathe heavily as the adrenaline still pumps and his muscles quiver. He pushes himself up, throwing her body off of him and spins around just in time to see Sam drop the bloodied blade and sink to the ground, his face a horrific sheet of white.

Dean jumps over to him and grabs his face with both hands, watching his little brother's eyes roll into the back of his head as he utters a hoarse, "you're welcome" before collapsing into Dean's chest.

**AN: I think there might be one more chapter after this, because of course right in the middle of one fic another hits like a freight train. But I really appreciate all the support I've been getting, you guys are FANTASTIC and I mean that! You guys keep me going with this, thanks so much! I hope you like this one! Yay our boys are reunited!**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: **Thank you so much everyone for all the reviews and support that I got for this story! It was so wonderful to be welcomed back into the fic writing community with suck kind and open arms, you are truly wonderful! I hope to have some more stories out soon, but I think this one was a beast enough for my first out of the gate in a while. But seriously thanks guys, you kept me going definitely! Let's see how our boys are, shall we?

**AN: **Also I'd like to apologize for the last chapter name mishap with my petulant girly vampire. Her name is Maggie, and I changed that after I wrote the story and forgot to edit it out of that chapter. My apologies! :(

**Warnings: **Maybe some language. But I think our boys have gotten through the worst of it!

**Disclaimer: **Boys don't belong to me. Car doesn't belong to me. But I get to borrow them for a little and that's okay with me!

_ Dean?_

Thunder rolls in towards the leaky and drafty barn smack in the middle of rural Eskridge, Kansas. Dean can feel the sharp pricks of mildew covered hay underneath the thin blanket he's stretched out over, attempting to keep his eyes closed. He can hear Sam's ten year old form shifting closer to him, slowly coming to rest his back against Dean's hip. Dean can feel his eyes on him and bites back a lopsided grin. _Fucking kid was cute as hell._

Facing the inevitable, Dean pretends to blearily open his eyes and rolls his body over so that his torso is twisted to get a look at Sam. He fights back a laugh when he is greeted with a trembling ten year old with too long moussed brown hair complete with stray pieces of straw.

_You rang?_

Sam purses his lips and gives Dean his best tough face, nervously pushing down his ruffled bangs.

_ You need a haircut, Chewbacca. _

Dean didn't think it was possible for a ten year old kid to go from trembling to angry in that short amount of time, but he did, and Dean watched as his facial expressions fought with each other over which emotion was going to be on the surface first. In the end, another clap of thunder caused resignation to win and Sam jumped, tension spilling over his working jaw. Dean sighed and sat up, rubbing a hand down his face before putting an arm around Sam's shoulders.

_What did I tell you about the thunder, Sammy? It's not gonna hurt you. _

Sam only leaned closer to Dean's side and exhaled, barely concealing a flushed face.

_It's loud. Like Dad's rifle when I'm in the car._

Dean gulps loudly, and instinctively pulls Sam closer to him.

_You know what Dad's doing out there, saving people, hunting things. The family business, right? It's a good loud, it means there's one less bad ass thing out there._

_ I know, _Sam replied, squirming out of Dean's clutch with writhing movements only a flexible ten year old can make. Dean is surprised for a moment before Sam's head comes down on his outstretched legs and curls up there, not bothering to ask permission. _It's just loud._

Dean cards his fingers through Sam's mop of hair once, silently making a promise to take him to get a haircut, and that's all it took; soft snores traveled to Dean's ears and he doesn't try to hide the smile that spreads across his face. Another chick flick moment in two months, but Dean doesn't sleep that night, content to keep watch.

Dean runs this memory through his exhausted mind as he perches himself on the bed closest to the door at the Domain Hotel in Palo Alto. He's paid two hundred cash for two nights, earning himself at least a week of roughing it in the car when he's out of here, but the too tall, soundly sleeping form of his little brother on the bed opposite him has convinced him to splurge a little. Well, not so much convinced, more like simply looked at him. Dean breaks his stare to glance at the digital clock glowing on a nightstand between the two beds; it's just about four in the afternoon.

After Sam's spectacular display of swooning, Dean went into tip top hunters mode. Checking Sam's pulse, faint and too rapid, but there, he sprung up and reluctantly left him to free the locked man from the basement. Turns out the unkempt beard was an understatement, and he found himself face to face with a much less jolly and much more ginger version of Santa, and with barely a word of thanks to Dean, rushed up the stairs and out of the house.

"Yeah you're welcome!" Dean shouted, just as the front door slammed and the choppy notes of a motorcycle made their way to his ears.

Dean quickly disposed of the evidence that three vampires had been bunking in what turned out to be an abandoned house just on the outskirts of Bay Trail near Shoreline Lake. He burned the bodies, make sure to get every bit, before heading back to Sam. Hauling him out the front door, Dean hotwired a surprisingly flashy Volvo parked outside and drove the hell out of dodge, making his way towards Palo Alto.

It took a lot of convincing to get his exhausted brother out of the back of the car, but Dean couldn't risk the weird looks that he would most certainly get if he couldn't get Sam to at least put one foot in front of the other to the room. He'd made it, but at just about seven in the morning, he had thrown himself on the bed Dean guided him to and hadn't moved since.

Since then Dean had pulled off the used gauze from his arm, revealing an ugly set of three puncture mark pairs, angry and bruised. Swallowing the vomit from his throat, Dean cleaned them profusely, doing his best to be gentle, although Sam hardly budged. He reluctantly left Sam's side once to ditch the Volvo back in Serra Mall and rescued the Impala, calling in an anonymous tip on a stolen vehicle.

Dean shakes his head clear of fuzzy memories and stretches his arms over his head, stiff from cupping his chin for so long. He's exhausted, and could use some sleep himself, but chooses instead to get up and head to the bathroom where he wets a wash cloth and pats his face with cold water. He's tracing the dark smears under his bright eyes when he hears movement from Sam's bed and holds his breath, waiting to see if Sam is simply moving in his sleep or waking.

"D'n?" Sam's groggy voice spits out, and Dean drops the dripping cloth into the sink before stepping out of the bathroom.

"Good morning sleeping beauty, have a nice rest?" Dean jokes, but he's busy looking over Sam's face in the dim light of the blind drawn room. It's not perfect, but there's pink coating his cheekbones and his hazel eyes aren't as glassy behind hooded lids. Dean feels his shoulders droop with released tension.

"Very funny Dean," Sam chimed back, able to push himself up so that his back rested against the backboard. He awkwardly makes eye contact with Dean, who's still standing at the opposite end of the room, and curls his chapped lips into half a smile before casting his eyes downward.

Dean shuffles his toes in the carpet, brushing his hands along his thighs in response, looking at his own still made bed.

There's no words needed, but the message is clear.

_Thank you._

_You're welcome._

"How you feelin'?" Dean asked, making the strides across the room once the moment passed, and sat directly on Sam's bed, his back touching against Sam's knee._ Fucking hell Sammy, you're too tall for your own good._

"Alright I think. I'll live." Sam shrugged, reaching an arm to the back of his neck and rubbing there, eyes slowly closing.

Dean scoffs, subconsciously repeating Sam's motions, yawning widely. "Yeah well, close call Lunchables, you were almost vampire chow. Good thing you had a handsome big brother to save your ass, huh?"

It's Sam's turn to laugh as he gives Dean a look and meets his eyes, his mouth turned into a lopsided grin. "Yeah real lucky, how'd you get here, riding on a noble steed?"

Dean rolls his shoulders and looks away, his brow furrowed. "I planned the whole thing dude, they never saw it coming." Sam answers with a small, "yeah right" before exhaling heavily and silence ensues between the two.

It's been four months since Dean has even been within five feet of his kid brother and there are so many things he wants to say. _How's school? Did you learn how to cook anything besides toast and macaroni and cheese? Did you remember to do your laundry? Do you still sleep with a gun under your pillow?_

But the only thing he can do is stare at the ground and trace the patterns in the industrial carpet below his socked feet and hope that he doesn't stop breathing, when Sam breaks the silence.

"Dean, I'm sorry."

_Wasn't expecting that one._

Dean looks up, and twists towards Sam, unable to hide the confusion on his face. _Sorry?_

"You're sorry? For getting yourself snatched by dumb, dumber and dumbest? I mean I know they weren't the meanest bitches on the supernatural playground but -."

"No." Sam cuts him off, suddenly very interested in the thin sheets that he twists in his hands. He hesitates, but presses on. "For this. Stanford."

Dean sighs heavily and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Sammy, come on…"

"I mean, I'm not sorry. I am, but I'm not. I have a good life here, Dean. I'm getting good grades, I have friends, a permanent address, hell Dean I even have a girlfriend."

Dean looks up from his hands, a grin on his face. "Yeah good going on that one, she's California beautiful, dude."

Sam ignores the comment, making a mental note to ask Dean how he knew about Jess before going on reluctantly.

"I'm not sorry for that. I'm not sorry for being happy here, because I'm really freaking happy. But I am sorry I left you with Dad, I just couldn't…"

"Sam, stop. Just stop." Dean twists his body around and puts an arm on the other side of Sam's stretched out legs, steeling his resolve and finally getting around to what he should have said the day he watched his brother's back walk through the door.

"I'm sorry. I bought you a ruler with tips from the garage so that you could make perfectly straight lines for your freaking calculus tests. I swiped books from the library so that you could have one extra thing to read before we up and moved again. I told you to apply to those schools, and stayed up until three in the morning for a month straight making you grilled cheese sandwiches and reading vocabulary flash cards. I stuck stamps on nine envelopes and watched you stick those things in the mailboxes with this look on your face like you were any normal seventeen year old kid hoping to get into college. And when you got that full ride to Stanford I nearly punched dad in the face when he said you weren't going."

"Dean…" Sam tried to interrupt, his face a brilliant shade of red.

"I'm not done." Dean barked back, ignoring the tightness in his throat. "But I'm sorry, that the day you asked me if it was okay that you left, I said, 'hey, Sammy, why don't you just stay with us.' Because I was selfish, and I'll mask it with the same excuse any day, that I didn't want a fight. But all I wanted was to keep my kid brother around, and that's damn selfish. So I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry."

There's an awkward pause, a fierce silence where Dean looks furiously back at the ground and works his jaw, feeling both guilty and relieved and he's beginning to wonder how someone can possibly feel both of these things at once when Sam's voice breaks through the roaring in his ears.

"Okay."

That's all he utters, a simple two syllable word and Dean is slightly taken aback.

"Okay?" Dean repeats, studying Sam's passive face. If anything, Dean knows his brother is an open book; Dean's been able to read every emotion on Sam's face since he was old enough to smile, and he knows them like the back of his hand. Sam is sincere, and when he looks back at Dean, his face is calm.

"Yes, okay." Sam closes his eyes, smiling as he slips himself lower back into the bed until his head falls onto the pillow. "Jerk."

Dean playfully punches his shoulder. "Bitch."

Dean watches as his breathing grows deeper and the peaceful features of sleep play on the corners of his eyes.

Dean can hardly stop the smile that spreads across his face as he watches Sam sleep. He can feel his stomach growling, and he's been wearing the same clothes for about three days now, but he does little to stop himself from laying down beside his brother who had managed to curl himself into a ball. Dean gently presses his shoulder against Sam's tousled bangs and closes his eyes. He doesn't think about how in another day, he'll drop Sam off back at school and once more watch his brother's back retreat slowly away from him, and he doesn't even flinch when his phone rings and he misses three phone calls from his father.

Sam is ten again, this is just another chick flick moment, and Dean's just his protective big brother who can chase away the thunder with a simple touch.

**Fin**

**AN: Thank you so much for reading this and sticking with me, you guys are super wonderful. I really appreciate all the encouragement you gave me and I came away from this story with some new friends already! I loved this experience and hope to write some more soon. Thank you so much again!**


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